It was eighteen weeks today. 


And it is nearly a year since I started the blog on this site. I don’t know how many of my original readers are still here … ‘Stuff’, as they say, ‘happens’.  And there is some ‘stuff’ that none of us want to think about happening because it is just too hard …


I want to know where some of you have gone, how you are, but dare not ask. 


So, it was eighteen weeks today. 


The world has been hurrying on, but I still feel that time has stopped for me.  The wailing, alien creature, my grief, is quieter – still there, still ready to take me by surprise and put all reason to rest, but I am beginning to function again.  When someone complains of a sore knee, or an aching hip, I am able to look reasonably sympathetic and say the right things, but all the time with the knowledge that they have no idea about suffering at all.   


Oh yes, I am beginning to function again – after a fashion - because that is what ‘the world’ expects me to do. 


We don’t ‘do’ grief as a society, do we?  That is why grief is treated like a mental illness – shuffled off to the ‘bereavement’ counselors (in the past, we might have gone to our priests – perhaps some of us still do).  No – society wants us to keep ‘busy’ because us grieving ones, and those who are terminally ill, are awkward reminders about love and loss and illness and death; reminders too that no amount of keeping fit in the gym, no amount of going out there and getting and spending, or making our ‘mark’ on the world in other ways, will prevent the inevitable.  (People keep on suggesting that I take up various ‘hobbies’ – do they think taking up knitting will fill the yawning gap in my life?)


Bah (or fill in with the expletive of your choice) to the shallow ‘world,’ I say!  I am older and, I hope, wiser than I was a year ago when I first found myself here.  You all know one of the lessons I have learned – live for the moment, and love. 


But the relentless demands of time have been felt and I have been busy.  The formal complaint has gone in and I sincerely hope that I will have a little part to play in raising awareness about oesophageal cancer, about the abysmal survival rates, and the very patchy treatment in the UK.  Perhaps.  However, I think that three MPs have read the letter now … We will see, in time.


Finally, for those very faithful readers: Cold Comfort Cottage is just about wind and weather proof for the winter; the two remaining hounds are going to have to adjust to a new regime when their mistress returns to work; lawyers are going to be involved about the plumbing situation and the Ancient Aga is still being difficult. 




Best wishes to you all.